


Winter

by Queen_Em



Series: Four Seasons [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22633795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Em/pseuds/Queen_Em
Summary: " 24 hours ago you were being exiled after shooting a criminal master mind in the head. Now your arch nemesis, the man who blew his own brains out in front of you, is apparently alive, and here we are back in Baker Street.Oh and you’re high off your bloody face after taking a cocktail of class A drugs that caused you to overdose and nearly die! Why Sherlock?"Sherlock survived his overdose but neither he or John are coping.Set after Autumn Leaves but can be read as a stand alone.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Four Seasons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1054118
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely people
> 
> Life is getting in the way of posting, writing is a passion project, which life doesn't leave much time to do any more! 
> 
> This is a sequel to Autumn Leaves but can be read as a stand alone, I've played with the timeline a little also! 
> 
> Thank you for reading this and I welcome all comments, constructive criticism or kudos.  
> Much love  
> QE

_Trav'ling lady, stay awhile_

_Until the night is over._

_I'm just a station on your way,_

_I know I'm not your lover._

**_-Winter Lady, Leonard Cohen_ **

John went back to Baker Street with Sherlock, no one questioned it, no one raised an eyebrow, it was a given, as sure as the sunrise. Sherlock Holmes had just been brought back to life after a near fatal overdose of a cocktail of class A drugs on route to an untimely and likely unpleasant exile for shooting a corrupt media tycoon in the head, thus ending his grip on John Watson’s former-assassin wife. So of course John was going back to Baker Street, it was laughable that he wouldn't. Mycroft’s typically ostentatious Mercedes dropped them off, not before Mary had been taken home with a feeble protest from John that he should stay with his heavily pregnant wife, of course everyone knew that was just for show. Upon arriving at 221b the older Holmes had bid them goodnight with nothing more than a curt nod to Sherlock and a meaningful look to the Doctor that both moved and frightened him to his usually unshakable core. Hanging up his trademark coat with trembling hands, Sherlock flopped to the sofa with all the grace of a drunken platypus and surprisingly didn't resume his usual thinking pose or huddled up to one side in his childish display of distain. Instead, Sherlock simply sat there staring intently at the wallpaper with glassy, unfocused eyes. With a sad sigh, John appeared with some tea at the detective’s side moments later and Sherlock wrinkled his nose, he could smell the sugar John had heaped in, ever his protector was the good doctor. Silently, John sat in his chair, nursing his own cup, casting the occasional concerned glance at the detective’s billowy profile.

_Well I lived with a child of snow_

_When I was a soldier,_

_and I fought every man for her_

_Until the nights grew colder._

“Are we going to talk?” John asked in his doctor voice, low and eerily calm, Sherlock had to resist rolling his eyes.

“If you want to.”

“If I want to, of course I bloody want to. 24 hours ago you were being exiled to God only knows where after shooting a criminal master mind in the head. Now your arch nemesis, the man who blew his own brains out in front of you, is apparently alive, and here we are back in Baker Street. Oh and you’re high off your bloody face after taking a cocktail of class A drugs that caused you to overdose and nearly die! Why Sherlock?

“I honestly have no idea why he's back.”

“I'm not talking about Moriarty,” John snapped, “why the drugs?”

“Why not?” The usual air of mocking superiority Sherlock liked to drawl out when he was avoiding something was barely there, his tone was flat, his gaze to the floor.

“Sherlock! Talk to me, you were high before you got on that plane, before you even knew about Moriarty. You nearly overdosed, you nearly bloody died Sherlock, Jesus Christ you nearly died, again! I thought we were done with that!” John slammed his mug down, his voice rising in anger but shaking hands and his pained expression gave away his anguish, “Why, Sherlock, why would you do that again?” John’s voice was a cracked whisper his eyes boring into the pale face, silently pleading for the icy orbs to meet his own. Sherlock looked up, his face softened, out of guilt or melancholy John wasn’t sure but clearly the reality of what John meant struck a nerve, it wasn't the first time John had watched Sherlock die. The harsh reality of John’s words resonated with the detective as he looked at his doctor, his best friend, his saviour, his lover and started to speak, his voice soft.

“It wasn't a suicide mission John, I wasn't trying to take my own life, I wouldn't do that to you. I just needed something to get through what I had to do.”

“You could have died.”

“That wouldn't have been the worst thing, I was going to my death anyway.”

“Mycroft wouldn't send you to your death.”

“I wasn't talking about Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, but the quiver in his voice threatened to outshine the facade of anger he was half heartedly clinging to. “I'm not talking about anything. I need to use the bathroom.” Sherlock practically staggered out the room, his usual glide was unsteady, his whole body suffering the effects of the dramatic comedown. Stalking out a few minutes later the detective now had his dressing gown on and he pulled it tight around his dangerously skinny frame.

“You need to eat something,” John said, suddenly hauling them out of the awkward silence they found themselves drowning in.

“Why?”

“Because you're in the middle of a massive cocaine come down, you need to help your body recover.”

Why John was telling Sherlock this in his best calming doctor voice he really had no idea, the consulting detective certainly knew the basics of human biology, especially when it wasconcerning his own mistreated body.

“No John, why are you telling me?”

“Because I'm worried about you,” John replied calmly, busying himself in the kitchen, there was literally no food in there and his heart sunk. John scraped together some bread from the back of the freezer and a spread he guessed was jam, although he was fairly sure Mrs Hudson bought it and he felt increasingly concerned that his former flatmate thought the only thing he needed in the fridge was a bug collection and a human ear. John felt exceedingly guilty as he toasted the questionable looking bread and after placing it at the detective's side John retreated to his armchair as the sad looking toast sat untouched.

“Please eat something, I worry about you.”

“I’m not yours to worry about John,” the words stung as they made way for a dark silence that hung in the air, the bitter lack of sound taunted them. Neither were able to look at the other as Sherlock simply slumped in the sofa and looked away as John stared at the cold toast waiting for his watery vision to clear.

The silence was consuming, John felt like he was drowning, he could barely breath through the tension. They used to share laughter, stories, friendship and later passion in these very seats, now they could barely look at each other.

“I'll make some more tea,” John muttered, unable to bare the silence he hurried to the kitchen, the chances of anything being consumed were slim but he had to do something, he was a bloody doctor for Christ sakes, John couldn't let his friend suffer, especially as he knew full well he was part of the reason for Sherlock’s anguish. John heaped some sugar into the tea and brought it to the detective, who was curled up against the back of the settee. John took a moment to stare, he couldn't help it, neither of them ever could, which is partly why they were in this damm mess he thought bitterly. Sherlock looked wrecked, there were no two ways about it. Pale to the point of grey, skinny as a rake and dark, sunken eyes more haunted, more pained than John had ever seen. It broke his heart to see his beautiful madman in such a state but what shattered it was that deep down John knew he was part of the reason for Sherlock’s pain. Every time he and Sherlock were so much as in the same room John asked himself what he was doing, why they weren't together, why neither of them had done anything about the overwhelming passion that burned between them. John hated himself for it, he'd cheated on his wife with his best friend, who he then pretty much abandoned when Mary fell pregnant. Realistically Mary probably never suspected anything, undoubtably John's borderline obsession with his best friend’s resurrection irked her a little but the chances of her figuring out that John was in fact having the best sex of his life with his eccentric former flatmate, not innocently crashing on the sofa for convenience after a case, was highly doubtful.

So many times John came close to plucking up the courage and leaving Mary and committing to Sherlock but every time something stopped him. Sometimes it was the late night talks with his wife about moving to the countryside, having a dog and a few more kids to run around after, sometimes it was Sherlock's coldness usually coupled with his dangerous obsession with the work and disregard for life that left John half way between despair and rage. Sometimes John thought Sherlock would never settle down, would hate the mundane life a stable relationship would bring, that he’d realise John Watson was ordinary and he was extraordinary, perhaps Sherlock didn’t mean to but sometimes he made that abundantly clear. The work was Sherlock’s life, John was his friend of course, an enjoyable shag but he’d never actually settle down and commit, sacrifice his ridiculous, exhilarating, death-defying exciting life for ordinary John Watson. Yet sometimes it was John’s own cowardice, Captain John Watson the reliable, sturdy, family man, he had a good job, a wife who he loved, a baby on the way and a future that he so yearned for. Mary was nice, she was safe, she was beautiful… but Mary wasn't Sherlock, which is exactly why John fought every natural instinct and had been keeping his distance from the beautiful genius. It wasn't fair on either of his lovers but John didn't know what else to do, he had to be there for his wife and child, had to step up, Sherlock himself would never have forgiven him if he'd abandoned the pregnant Mrs Watson. Whilst a twisted chivalrous act, it meant that Holmes and Watson could barely be in the same room, neither would be able to keep their reluctant pact after spending time together with so much love, and not to mention raw animalistic attraction between them… The detective jerked a little, crashing John out of his thoughts, Sherlock writhed slightly as the comedown tore through his body. John wanted to hold him, to heal him until Sherlock was his beautiful madman again, kiss him until he was senseless, never let him go. But John didn't, he couldn’t, so he simply sighed, rubbed his betraying eyes and silently placed the sickly sweet tea next to the broken man.

_She used to wear her hair like you_

_Except when she was sleeping,_

_and then she'd weave it on a loom_

_Of smoke and gold and breathing._

“Will you eat some toast?” John asked, his voice meek, his presence feeling painfully awkward in the place he truly thought as home.

“I'm not sure I can keep it down,” Sherlock muttered, he looked up at the doctor with sunken eyes under full lashes, “you're trying to take care of me, I appreciate that, you’re a good man.”

“I'll always take care of you,” perhaps against his better judgment John went over to the settee and sat next to Sherlock, “I know things have been,” John hesitated not wanting to admit to the devastating distance that was forcing itself between them, “a little difficult lately butI mean it, I will always take care of you so talk to me, please. You nearly died and I can't let that happen again. I can't just walk away knowing you might bloody overdose again. Talk to me Sherlock, I'm here, I care about you, let me help you. Tell me, please tell me why, I need to understand, I need to help.”

“There's not much to understand, I’m an addict.”

“This was a one off,” John said firmly trying to keep his tone gentle and reassuring, classic Doctor Watson, Sherlock nearly laughed.

“If it makes you feel better to think that,” the detective muttered, reluctantly taking a tiny bite of the cold toast, “I don't think that is a discussion to be had right now.” Sherlock murmured through a mouthful of crumbs, his face wrinkling in distain at the cold, hard bread, pushing the plate away, looking even more queasy that before.

“I'm an addict John, I've fallen off the wagon before and got back on it eventually, it is what it is.” Sherlock’s voice was calm, his attitude nonchalant as he practically shrugged, making it clear everyone else was overreacting, although in reality it was a badly acted facade to try and calm John down. Evidently Sherlock was losing patience with this topic, with being fussed over, having to explain his troubled state of mind and reveal his intimate thoughts and ongoing struggle, allowing himself to be vulnerable was not an option.

“You're suffering Sherlock, I know you are, talk to me please, I don't want you to suffer.” John’s voice was gentle, his eyes pleading, his lip trembled slightly as he spoke, “I wont let you do this alone, I wont watch you die again Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sighed, he looked utterly defeated, John couldn't bare it, he reached for the trembling hand but thought better of it, laying his hand on a nearby pillow instead and simply listened as Sherlock quietly spoke.

“I didn't want to suffer either,” Sherlock murmured, “in my youth, drugs were how I took myself out of the hell that I found reality to be. For a long time I could never truly fathom finding a place in this miserable world, I never knew how I fit into it, how to fit in with others. Then I discovered that drugs took the edge off reality, they sharpened my focus, allowed me to block out the foolish distractions, they made the world make more sense, something I always struggled with. John, I don't need to lie to you, manipulate you into believing one false excuse or another, you always get the truth from me. As much as I try to deny it, recently I've found myself distracted, as pathetic as it sounds I feel somewhat lost and am unable to resist reverting back to my old habits. For a long time I've not been tempted, I never felt the need, I had the work, I have people who for some unfathomable reason care about me and the world made a little bit more sense... but at present my world does not make much sense and the drugs seem to be a struggle I cannot overcome. I need something to sharpen my focus, to keep my mind vaguely sane and to stop the distractions of this hellish reality. I was going to be exiled John, likely get my head blown off in the middle of nowhere,” he sighed and rubbed his red eyes, “I didn't want to fight any more, I'd already fought for two miserable, lonely years. I'm older, weaker and I've had a bullet through my chest since then. Yes, there were times after the fall when I was on top of the world, where I lived for the adrenaline but I didn't fake my death to be clever, you know that. It wasn't all terrible but it was hard, it was lonely, it was painful, you've seen what they did to me.”

“Yes,” John instinctively took Sherlock’s hand relieved when the detective didn't snatch it away, holding it tightly back, somewhat cautiously running his thumb over Johns knuckles. The doctor had seen Sherlock’s mangled flesh, the scars, the way Sherlock flinched when a car backfired, couldn't stand being in small dark spaces or that he limped after a long day. Of course John saw, of course he knew the most important person in his life had been broken by his time away.

“There was always something to fight for, always a reason to keep going no matter how bad it got. Keeping you, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade safe, coming back to Baker Street, seeing my parents again, being back with you, that's what kept me going. It was a battle but I won it, I did my job, it was worth the fight.” The grip on John’s hand suddenly became tighter, “This was a bullshit mission they made Mycroft send me on, some abstract drug cartel in the middle of nowhere that the secret service are too incompetent to solve, or don't want to risk their own men to bring it down. I don't want to fight again John.”

“Sherlock,” the whispered name tumbled out of the doctor’s mouth, all he could do was hold the detective’s hand, still shaking in his grasp.

“Everyone is fine, no one is in danger, you'd probably be in more danger if they were to discover me on that blasted mission, you're happy John, that's all I've ever wanted. Last time I fought for us, for our friendship, what might have been, for the hope of having you in my life again. You're safe, you're happy, that's all that matters.”

“No Sherlock, it's not all that matters!”

Sherlock sighed and continued, his voice flat, “I wasn't trying to kill myself John but that wouldn't have been the worst outcome, my last conversation with you, your laugh the last sound I heard, reading your blog as I slipped off. It wasn't my intention to die on the plane but it would have been a pleasanter way to go that having my head blown off in the middle of God only knows where on some meaningless suicide mission.”

“You nearly died, you can't nearly die on me again. I've lost you once and damm well nearly lost you again on that operating table, I can't do it again. You can't leave me again.”

“I would never hurt you John but I’m tired, so tired, I’m in pain and you’re in pain. This isn’t what I fought for, this isn't how the battle was supposed to end.”

John was silent, he could feel tears threatening, there was nothing he could say, nothing he could even think that would make this better. Before John could even fathom a response Sherlock darted out the room and John heard the unmistakable sound of someone being sick. The come down was knocking the stuffing out of Sherlock and John couldn't help but wonder just how long his friend had been using again for, it was apparent today wasn't the first in recent times. Debating whether to follow him into the bathroom, John heard the detective swear and a toilet flushed so John simply turned his back and put the kettle on.

_Why are you so quiet now_

_standing there in the doorway?_

_You chose your journey long before_

_you came upon this highway._

Sherlock staggered out, pale to the point of being white, an unhealthy sheen across his face as he flopped down on the sofa, reaching for the tea with shaking hands.

“You ok?” John asked a little warily.

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered, “no I don't need a hit John, I can hear your thoughts as usual. I do have a slither of self control left.”

“I wasn't saying that, I’m just worried, Sherlock.”

“I know.” Sherlock sighed, it wasn't his usual dramatic flouncy sigh that commanded attention, it was a genuine, tired exhale, he detested the sound, it was so weak.

“I don't deserve you John Watson. I never have. Taking the drugs was a foolish decision I know that,” Sherlock ran his hands through his unruly hair, the shake in his hands was still evident, his tone was soft and sad. “Life is hard John, I don’t know what else to say. I know I’ve let you down again.”

“You haven’t let me down.” John reached over and gently laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “We’ll get through this, I’m not going to let you suffer.”

“I miss you John,” Sherlock’s voice was a whisper, tears threatening his vision, leaning into the Doctor’s soft touch a little, “It is like we are strangers, so close but so far apart. I can’t bare it.”

“Sherlock, we’re not strangers you and I will never be strangers, you’re the most important person in my life.”

“You're the most important person to me also. I just thought we would get back to how we were again at some point. We've barely had a conversation for the last 6 months, I miss you so very much.”

“I’m here, Sherlock”

“Thats not quite true, we don’t seem to be able to be in the same room any more. I’m happy for you John truly I am, your family must come first and I understand that,” Sherlock suddenly raised his hand dismissing his words idly, trying to lighten his tone, “ignore me John, I’m rambling, feeling sorry for myself how terribly pedestrian.”

“You’ll never be pedestrian,” John said softly, taking Sherlock’s hand with a small smile he hoped Sherlock would return, “it’s been a difficult few months. I know, you’re suffering and I don’t want you to suffer. I’m so sorry Sherlock its just with Mary and the baby…” John trailed off his face flushing a little, “I want us to be together, please know that, you’re the person I’m meant to be with. It’s just right now I need to support Mary, she’s having my baby, I don’t have a choice.”

Sherlock pulled his hand away indignantly, “It must be so terrible having two people love you John! How very hard for you, do you ever think how difficult it is for me, to see you with her, knowing you chose her, after everything we’ve been through, after what she did to me! I didn’t think you would stay with the woman who put a bullet in my chest!”

Sherlock’s tone was suddenly harsh, an uncontrolled desperation to his voice and he looked away, his face as bitter as his words.

“I will never forgive her for that. I just can’t leave her right now, she’s the mother of my child,” John said lamely feeling like he'd been punched in the stomach.

“Yes you’ve made that abundantly clear” Sherlock snapped, he stood to storm away but only made it to the chair before half collapsing back down.

“Steady,” John said instinctively putting his hand out to help which Sherlock pointedly ignored. They sat there in uncomfortable silence for a moment until John, perhaps against his better judgement, somewhat nervously perched on the arm of the chair, Sherlock refusing to look at him.

“Sherlock, you are the most important person in my life, you must know that.”

“Stop John, please.” Sherlock’s voice broke, he looked away hiding the tear that was slipping down his cheek.

“Sherlock,” John trailed off, “my love, please don’t cry. You don't believe me. Of course, why would you, I’ve not given you any reason to believe me. Jesus, what the fuck am I doing!”

Without warning he took Sherlock’s face in his hands, his heart breaking at the tear-stains and continued speaking, his voice urgent, “Life is complicated right now and I wish it wasn’t, I can’t change that Mary is having my baby.Sherlock I’m so sorry, Jesus I’m sorry because I made you doubt that you are the reason I breathe, the most important person in my life. We may not be able to change the situation but I am going to do so much better, I’m going to be the person you deserve.”

Sherlock took John’s hands and brought them to his lap, tracing patterns on his knuckles gently, “John, my darling, we both need to try harder. I haven’t been the person you deserve either, I’ve been struggling and I’ve pushed you away and I’ve hurt you.”

John's heart lurched, Sherlock shouldn't have to tell him he was struggling, that he was battling the demons that nearly killed him so many years a go. John should just know, after everything they’ve been through together, he suddenly detested himself as he battled for the words.

“Stop it,” Sherlock's voice was a soft whisper, a lightness about it John hadn't heard in a while.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking so loudly, you're blaming yourself for my overdose. Don’t, it's not you, it's my issues, my demons.”

“I worry, yes things are complicated but nothing has changed how important you are or how I feel about you.”

Suddenly Sherlock gripped Johns’s hands tightly, “I love you John, I love you so much”

“I love you too, Jesus of course I love you, you are the most gorgeous, intelligent, kindest man. I know we aren’t in a great situation but I need you to know that this is it, it’s you and me, whatever happens I …”

“Shh, stop talking,” Sherlock silenced John by throwing his arms around his neck and kissed the doctor like he needed his mouth to breathe. Sherlock didn’t want to talk any more, didn’t want to hear words about their unsolvable problem, he just wanted John to kiss him, to ravish him to take him apart like he’d done so many times before. John ran his hands through the wild curls, making sure his touch was gentle given his lovers fragile state but his kiss was firm. Hands went to John’s jumper, fumbling to take it off, shaking digits hampering his task, eventually it fell to the floor and John moaned a little when the pouty lips moved to his neck. Gentle nips and teasing teeth were gloriously assaulting John’s sensitive skin but Sherlock was clearly struggling, his sore and trembling body giving way slightly.

“Take it easy love,” John said softly, dropping to the chair whilst gently bringing Sherlock into his lap, continuing to kiss the detective thoroughly, grinding their bodies together in glorious passion.

“I want you,” Sherlock moaned, nipping at John’s ear, thrusting his tongue in for good measure, John shuddered in pleasure as Sherlock smirked mischievously, he knew exactly how to get the doctor fired up.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” Sherlock purred, John cupped his face and planted another kiss to Sherlock’s pouty lips who let out a little whimper of pleasure. With little grace they fumbled their way to the bedroom, Sherlock was practically ripping off John’s shirt who was half carrying the gorgeous detective, refusing to part their lips for more than a second. John’s mobile phone suddenly started to blare, startling them both, he silenced it quickly with a hurried apology before planting his lips back on Sherlock, trailing kisses along his collarbone as they finally reached the bedroom. Obnoxiously the phone range rang again and although John let it ring out, the text alert then sounded and John felt compelled to check, quickly skimming the message.

“Oh god!” Suddenly John stopped in his tracks, his face noticeably greying, their passionate embrace suddenly halting. Putting a hand on his shoulder Sherlock said softly, “Its ok John, you need to go, it's ok.”

“I, its, I have to…”

“Marys’ in labour isn't she?” Sherlock hadn’t seen the text but naturally he’d deduced its contents effortlessly, John simply nodded, mouth agape.

“Go,” Sherlocks voice was a whisper, “You need to go, it’s ok.”

“Mary’s having the baby.” It sounded more of a question than a statement.

“Yes, go and be with her, bring your child into the world. It’s all ok, it’s good, this is good, John!” Sherlock cupped Johns face who looked like he was going to be sick and continued reassuringly, “Text me and I’ll come to the hospital, it will be ok.You can do this John I know you can.”

John simply nodded and the detective kissed him softly before watching him hurry out of the flat, those betraying tears once again pricking at his eyes as the front door shut.

_Trav'ling lady stay awhile_

_until the night is over._

_I'm just a station on your way,_

_I know I'm not your lover._

For a while Sherlock simply sat, letting the silence consume him, he needed to do something, anything. It was pushing midnight he really should go to bed, his abused body was crying for rest after the cocaine related stunt he'd just pulled but his mind was racing. Trembling hands betrayed him once again, he needed something to get through this, his heart was hammering and he wondered if he might hyperventilate right there and then, how undignified. Really Sherlock needed a large glass of water and a binge of sleep, but in reality he was going to put some sort of harmful substance in his body and work on a bizarre experiment until he literally collapsed. John had left some scotch there, that might do the trick. Sometimes after a case they would pour themselves a generous dose before engaging in some less than angelic activities or even just drifting off into a comfortable sleep after putting the world to right. Sherlock lived for those moments, yes the sex was amazing of course, it was with John Watson after all, but it was the intimacy, the warmth the camaraderie that Sherlock lived for and what he missed the most. Sherlock shook his head quickly, willing those thoughts to leave before they consumed him. The scotch wasn't going to cut it, he couldn't bear drinking it without John anyway, there was a pack of cigarettes under the second floor board nearest the fire, quite why he hid them he wasn't sure, no one was around to check, he could smoke himself into a coma in the lounge if he so chose and no one would be none the wiser until poor Mrs Hudson discovered his corpse when she brought him a cuppa.

Sherlock often marvelled how he lived alone without dying for so long, somehow John had got him to eat and sleep in a slightly more normal fashion and he hadn't touched drugs whilst the doctor shared his home, hadn't even been tempted in fact. Although cigarettes were a slightly different story, Sherlock’s mind was too active, his world too colourful and soul too damaged to survive without some sort of hit, at least John helped turn his 3 pack a day habit into a not-so-secret drag at midnight every now and again. John always seemed to know when he was craving one, although Sherlock would loathe to admit it but he actually loved the proud little looks John would issue when he successfully directed Sherlock into a new activity to ease his troubled mind. Nicotine probably wasn't strong enough right now as Sherlock threw himself on the settee and curled up, loathing everything and everyone including his own blasted transport that was crying out for something, anything to take the pain away. John and Mary were having a baby, that was it, they were a family, a part of each other for eternity snd Sherlock wanted to die, it felt like his heart was being physically ripped from his chest. They made a human that will keep them together, and John away from Sherlock. A selfish thought but the detective would admit he was a selfish man when John Watson was concerned. Sherlock never wanted to be apart from John, he wanted to hold him, grow old with him, go on their ridiculous adventures forever more, but John didn't want that, he can’t want it otherwise they’d have bloody shacked up by now!Despite their recent interrupted passion and John’s declaration of love, Sherlock was certain John actually wanted a family, a house in the suburbs watching school plays and attending PTAs, the thought made him gag. Although it tore Sherlock apart, ripped his bleeding heart to shreds, John’s happiness was all Sherlock wanted… and he didn’t think he was part of that. Sighing, Sherlock lit a cigarette not even attempting to go outside, the nicotine would do for now and John wouldn't be calling any time soon.

Whilst his mind place didn't have a room for pregnancy, Sherlock guessed between 3 and 18 hours Baby Watson would be in the world. What would they call her, John would want a traditional name with Scottish roots, Mary would want something obscure and everyone knew who wore the trousers in the Watson household and it certainly wasn't the Doctor. For a while Sherlock had wondered if it was a fake belly, even wondered if Mary would somehow drug the entire ward and her husband, miraculously find a baby and everyone would be none the wiser. Sherlock was aware those were deeply unpleasant thoughts but he wouldn't put anything past her anymore! He had tried with Mary, initially he’d genuinely liked her, then she put a bullet in his chest and it all went a bit down hill. Looking him in the eye, pointing a gun at close range and pulling the trigger then leaving him to bleed to death on the floor did leave one a tad bitter. Yet although there was a constant ache in his chest, that wasn't what caused Sherlock the most pain, it was the fact that even though John had cradled Sherlock’s dying body, begged him to return to the land of the living and held his hand every moment, he still chose Mary.

Coughing a little as the smoke travelled through his body Sherlock tried to steady his hand that held the light, still shaking noticeably. His mind was spinning, the nicotine wasn’t helping, thoughts of John, his new life, the life he would never have with Sherlock were racing through his head. It was suddenly a reality, any shred of hope, the fantasy that one day John would walk away from Mary and be with Sherlock were crumbling. On the plus side John had asked Sherlock to be the godparent, well for normal people this would be a plus side Sherlock thought bitterly, almost laughing out loud as this own sardonic thoughts. Godparent! The thought made Sherlock sick, watching over the very thing that will tie John and Mary together forever, the thought was laughable. ‘How do you know Daddy, Uncle Sherlock,’ Baby Watson might ask one day, ‘well actually I used to sleep with your Daddy under your Mummy's nose, we were going to run away together then she got pregnant with you and it all went somewhat to shit!’ Suddenly Sherlock couldn't stand his own thoughts anymore and threw the cigarette to the floor stamping on it, ignoring the slight pain as the heat touched his bare foot, the burn was actually a welcome distraction.

“Sorry John,” Sherlock murmured, rolling up the sleeve of his increasingly grubby dressing gown. The heroin was some of the good stuff, he couldn't even remember how it came to be in his possession, he had more than enough money and time on his hands to get the best quality with relative ease nowadays. Maybe things would look up when the baby came and life calmed down, Sherlock thought, his mind frantic and bitter, maybe their unrequited love would win and maybe Sherlock would finally sort his pathetic life out and be the man that John Watson deserved. Or maybe John will be with Mary forever and Sherlock will continue to not do a thing about it like the coward he truly was.

“Or maybe thats a problem for another lifetime,” Sherlock murmured as he injected the heroin into his veins, closing his eyes until his mind was finally, blissfully clear.

_Trav'ling lady stay awhile_

_until the night is over._

_I'm just a station on your way,_

_I know I'm not your lover._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, the third instalment will be up asap!  
> Peace Out  
> xxx
> 
> Disclaimer- the song is Winter Lady by Leonard Cohen and I don't not own the song or any of the Sherlock characters, I'm only playing with them!


End file.
